


The Dinner (Ch5)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Definitely not Adlock, Deleted Scenes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dom Irene Adler, F/M, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Lesbian Irene Adler, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Naked Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Power Play, Riding Crops, Sex Toys, Smut, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, This is a Johnlock story, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Sherlock feels the need to conduct an experiment and only Irene Adler knows the subject well enough to help him.(This is still a Johnlock story, not Adlock)Light BDSM warning





	The Dinner (Ch5)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 5 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.
> 
> Takes place after the events of A Scandal in Belgravia - S2 E1

 

 

<TXT> Good Morning. Let’s have dinner.

<TXT> I’m not hungry. SH

<TXT> Good. Let’s have dinner.

<TXT> Tomorrow at 5. SH

<TXT> The world is ending. 

“Are you going somewhere?” John nearly bumped into Sherlock as the latter was getting ready to leave with a small black suitcase in hand.

“Matters of international importance.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

“Yup, Queen and country. All that.” Sherlock avoided John’s inquisitive gaze. He was good, the best, at hiding what was on his mind from the world but there was no point risking John reading his expression.

“Do you need me?” 

 _More than the air I breathe_. “No, not this time.”

“Fine. I’ll just...” John waved in the general direction of the living room and his laptop on the desk. He looked...disappointed? Sherlock had been deducing John’s emotions a lot better since he started paying attention to how he reacted to certain things that Sherlock did or said. However, he was still rarely able to predict them.

“Prague,” read John out loud which made Sherlock turn around abruptly. John reached for the boarding pass protruding from the front pocket of the suitcase when Sherlock went to grab a book from a shelf.

“Like I said, Queen and country.” 

“I don’t believe you,” John looked at the paper in his hand again. “You’re going to see  _her_ , aren’t you? 

“Her? Her who?” Sherlock feigned ignorance, but John knew better. Oh, how splendid, he was jealous now. This was going to turn out even better than Sherlock planned. 

“Never mind. Have a nice trip,” John’s words dripped with frustration and disappointment. “I hope you won’t be bored.”

“I’m sure I won’t. Goodbye, John,” Sherlock said nonchalantly before softly closing the door. He’d be back in three days tops, John won’t even notice his absence.

_ _ _

The main reason Sherlock had bought the flight on a Thursday morning was that the airport as well as the plane itself wouldn’t be very busy. Prague was a beautiful city; the old buildings had witnessed a lot of pages from the history books, which caused Sherlock to entertain an idea of taking a small tour. Even though he’s been to the city before, the beauty of it never ceased to amaze him. The cabbie was unusually quiet the whole way, letting Sherlock think. Surprisingly enough, that was not the best idea this time. He was hoping he was doing the right thing by coming here, nevertheless there was no point turning back now.

She opened the door by herself, dressed in figure-hugging white dress, 20’s style stockings judging by the strip on her calf, and black stilettos with red soles; Louboutins. Small diamond studs adorned her ears, just like the day they had met for the first time. She must have remembered and had dressed for him. Sentiment? Possible, but it was him who had arranged this meeting and for his benefit, though he was certain by the way she looked at him that the ordeal won’t be torturous for her. Although, it just might be for him. 

“Tea?” she asked in lieu of greeting as she let him inside and indicated for him to take a seat on the sitting room sofa. There was no one else in the house, clearly. The gate, the curtains, and the flowers in the vase all pointed out to that. She respected privacy, her own as well as her clients’, and today that was him, as difficult as it was to admit.

“Please,” he accepted. The white leather of the sofa matched the room which was painted in warm pastels and adorned with vintage furniture. She could definitely afford the style. The tea was already on the table; the tray had local biscuits next to the teapot and two cups.

“I know you didn’t really come here for me,” she got straight to the point as she poured the tea. Exceptional at deduction as she was, she would have made a great detective.

“Clearly.” 

“You don’t have to be rude about it,” she wasn’t offended, but apparently was used to more praise from her visitors. She poured tea for them both, added a splash of milk and two sugars for him and just milk for herself. He watched her take a sip first before taking his own cup. Precaution. 

“You’re not hiding anymore,” he changed the subject.

“The art is to hide in plain sight,” she said giving him a coy smile. Oh, this Woman. If not for John... No, not even then, but if there was ever a woman for him, it would have been her. The Woman with an unprecedented wit.

“Do you still keep my old camera-phone in your drawer?” She asked offhandedly.

The tea he started sipping on hit his throat too fast and he sputtered just a tiny bit. That was such a John thing to do, he released a small laugh. The surprise on her face was evident; the mask of flirtation disappeared for a second before being carefully reinstated. 

“You thought of him just now, didn’t you?” her eyes were examining Sherlock’s features in wonder. “Did you know, that your whole face changes when you think of your... John?” She had the decency to avoid an impertinent remark insulting John with the use of some seemingly witty descriptor. Sherlock was stricken by the realization of the accuracy of her statement. 

 _His_  John. 

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Sara, was it?”

“Mmm no. That one has been gone for a long time now,” yes there were others after that, but Sherlock didn’t care to elaborate. 

“Love is love. You can love the person, regardless of their gender,” she stated. Just then a loud ringing interrupted their conversation. 

Sherlock was surprised to see that it wasn’t the phone she kept close to her as the sound was coming from the adjacent room.

“Apologies,” the surprise and alarm in her voice was unmistakable. The muted conversation ended quickly and the Woman reappeared with a small white suitcase in one hand and a black coat draped over the other arm. 

“There’s been a situation. Come with me.”

-

It wasn’t a scandal. This time, she was accused of murder, she admitted to him when she rushed him out of her house. Sherlock checked the news on his phone as she called for a taxi. There was no mention of Irene Adler or any murder in or around Prague.

“You can stop checking. It won’t be on the news. They cannot kill someone who is presumed dead,” she announced. He opened the door to the taxi and she slid inside, leaving space for him, then continued talking. “But they can make sure the presumptions become the truth. A lot easier, don’t you think?”

“What’s your plan?” by the look of determination on her face, she already had one.

“I need to come back to the land of the living, have a public life again. And it needs to happen very quickly and be very flashy,” she looked at him coyly. “I’ll need your help, I know you can keep my secrets.”

“Who’s after you this time?”

“People who want to kill me.”

“Don’t start,” again, he felt the same frustration about the unknown that he thought John must feel with him. 

She sighed and dropped the act a tone or two. “There was a man in the local mafia and I knew what he liked. I used some photographs to make sure he would behave and too many people found out. His enemies used that fact and made his death look like my doing,” she met his gaze then, “which it wasn’t. And now his family is after me.” The very vague explanation would have to do for now as she was clearly scared enough to run immediately. 

Between beautiful old structures, she led him through an ornate wooden door to a club situated completely underground, below the seemingly ordinary building in the city. They had to go through the boisterous and crowded club first before they reached the quite serene sleeping quarters. Sherlock had never seen so many naked people in various positions as he did when they made their way through the club floor. The abundance of leather straps and both men and women in cages made his head spin as it registered and catalogued it all. 

“What are we doing here? I didn’t agree to this,” he finally managed to ask after they had left their suitcases in their respective rooms and reached a place where he didn’t have to shout to be heard; a chill-out area with leather sofas and small tables. The lighting was dimmed, making the room feel more private than the club proper. An array of people sat casually chatting, others engaging in more intimate activities. 

Sherlock felt the pressing urge to text John but apparently, they were so far underground he couldn’t get a signal.

“It’s the safest place for me tonight. Since we’re not going anywhere, we might as well discuss the plans for tomorrow,” she replied, looking very at ease in the club considering her current circumstances.  

A beautiful woman, with long blonde hair reaching her back, clad in a skimpy red dress approached them and slid her hand around The Woman’s back. They leaned into each other and greeted with a soft meeting of lips. The familiarity in their touch and the comfort with which they stood so close to each other struck Sherlock. Was this how he had looked with John that time at the alumni meeting so many months ago? No, there’d been more tension between them; it hadn’t been the same. Sherlock wished it could be, but John would never be at ease with his physical affection in public, Sherlock was certain of that enough not to even approach the subject. 

“This is my girlfriend, Zaneta,” the words spoken by The Woman broke him away from his own thoughts. 

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I’ve heard a lot about you,” the other woman offered him a radiant smile and shook his hand. “I’ll have to steal her from you; I haven’t seen her for far too long.” She intertwined her fingers with The Woman’s as she said it. They looked at each other with such open affection it made Sherlock catalogue it for future reference. This must be how people in love looked like. Was it different from physical attraction? He realized that he had been staring at the couple.

“Mr. Holmes? You can use any services you like here, just tell them you’re with me,” The Woman said over her shoulder leaving Sherlock to his own thoughts.

_ _ _

“I have to say, Mr. Holmes, you look rather dashing in a tuxedo,” The Woman complimented, while walking around him to get a closer look, her finger tracing the top of his shoulders. She wore a yellow gown adorned with tiny crystals at the cleavage and Sherlock admitted to her that not many women could look as good as her in that horrible colour. 

The previous day, Sherlock had walked through the club, not missing a thing of importance and went to bed at an early hour, getting only several hours of sleep anyway. The images of people from the club raced through his mind, interwoven with the images of what he could do with John that would suit the both of them. Those thoughts led to their most natural conclusion. Twice. Each time, he imagined John’s mouth and his hands on him; touching, licking, sucking him. And each time he came with John’s name on his lips as hot spurts of semen spilled on his chest. 

Standing now in front of a mirror at a tailor’s shop, he wished he was back at Baker Street, looking for a new case to solve with John. He didn’t like the way The Woman was planning to reclaim her public life. He felt uncomfortable with the whole idea; the tux, the fake smiling and the necessity of mingling with  _people_. 

“If we’re to make it believable, we need to look like we’re  _very close_ ,” she said the last two words directly over his lips, conveying the message clearly. Then she stood in front of him and extended her hand. “Tonight, call me Irene.”

Sherlock wasn’t keen on the whole idea but if he washed her back, she would wash his, as the saying went. He took her gentle, yet whip-wielding hand in his, and gave it a small shake. “Sherlock.”

They reached Rooseveltova street and were met at the front door of the mansion by a butler. The Italian Rennaissance building with Ionic columns and blue-green copper roof was a masterpiece of its own and Sherlock would love to admire it but for the unfortunate circumstance he found himself in this evening.

 _Oh look, it’s a penguin party_ , he wanted to say as they approached the black-and-white clad people, but kept his thoughts to himself as he could easily imagine John saying ‘Timing, Sherlock’. A small group of people greeted them inside, congratulating them and clapping their backs. Hands were shaken, air kisses exchanged and fake smiles glued in place. If this was what a ‘normal’ life looked like, Sherlock would rather be the freak everyone called him. There had been reporters at the big gala they attended before, as well as here and Irene made sure their picture was taken for the papers. He played his part, just as she had asked him to. To extend his courtesy, he offered to help to clear her of the murder charges but she assured him, she had already set things in motion and the issue would be dealt with quickly and efficiently.

_ _ _ 

‘ _The elegant couple was seen attending a prestige charity gala last night. When asked about plans for their future together, n_ _either_ _of them denied the possibility of tying the knot_.’

“What the bloody hell is this!?” John threw The Sun newspaper he had been reading in the bin under the sink. Trash, that’s what it was, nothing else.

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked entering the kitchen, but one look at John was enough for her to know what had happened. “Oh, you read the papers. Poor dear. I’m sure it’s just rumours, you know how those reporters are. Writing made up stories for money.”

“I know Mrs. Hudson.”  _But there was a picture_ , he wanted to add. A picture of Sherlock smiling and, on his arm, none other than the infamous Irene Adler. Officially not dead now and holding the arm of the famous detective. 

“Sherlock would never get married so soon. And certainly not to a woman,” she announced turning to look for something in the cupboard.

“What did you say?” John perked up and stared a hole in the back of his landlady’s head. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Well, the other paper said that they got married in secret...” she turned to him with an empty can of tea in one hand and said paper in the other.

‘ _Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?_ ’ the headline said. Sod this. John got up to leave. He was sick of sitting on his arse. 

_ _ _

The following day, the local paper had their picture on page 5. A smiling couple, impeccably dressed, standing so close to each other that they must be in love. Congratulations followed under the headline and The Woman seemed to be satisfied enough to return with Sherlock to her house. He asked about her murder accusation on several occasions but to no avail. She had waved him off each time, letting him know that she had it under control. He could deduce that she had trusted him with enough secrets as it was already and clearly wanted to make sure he was aware that she was perfectly capable of dealing with her own problems without the use of his detective skills.

“Care to see the room now?” she asked Sherlock as they settled back in her home. They both headed to mount the wide red oak staircase rounding at the top. At the end of the long corridor, with walls adorned with paintings belonging at the Tate, was a sturdy white door, much different from the other doors inside, bar the colour. She put the code in the keypad and turned to him with a playful look. “I change it often enough, so today it’s the one you already know.” 

Sherlock paused before entering the room, doubt creeping into his mind. He should do this, for John. The image of John’s arms pinned over his head made Sherlock inhale deeply. The look on John’s face then, filled with yearning and trust, was exquisite. Sherlock knew he couldn’t sabotage their new bedroom dynamics by being unprepared. John’s pleasure depended on it. 

“Oh, it’s fascinating,” she exclaimed.

“What is?” Sherlock was annoyed now, his doubt and her reading him too well was getting on his nerves. He was used to Mycroft doing that but no one else. No wonder people were constantly pissed off with him.

“You have already hurt him, haven’t you? And you’re afraid you’ll do that again,” she said, with a genuine note of concern in her voice.

Sherlock remembered all too clearly, how he squeezed John’s throat right before he made him come which resulted in John passing out. He refused to let that happen again. Not unless he planned to and John agreed to it. John had to understand the value of a safeword, but Sherlock had to be careful enough so John wouldn’t have to use it. They had gone too far too quickly and neither of them had been prepared for it.

Slowly, Sherlock took a few steps forward to enter the room. Immediately he looked around, registering the devices on the walls, shelves, and the bed. It was a large room and very well equipped. There were two sides to it; one was modern and efficiently equipped, the other was decorated with Louis XIV style furniture. More art was present on wallpapered walls, this time Renaissance paintings in various sizes.  _Was that a Rubens?_  

“It was a gift,” she said right behind him as if he voiced the question aloud. He flinched. Last time he had been in a bedroom with her, she pumped him full of sedative.

“Hmmm.” She murmured picking up a riding crop from an array of similar equipment held by an organizer mounted on a wall, not dissimilar to a wall tool rack found in workshops. She traced the riding crop along his jaw and he batted it away, “Now now, Sherlock. If you want to be a good Dom, I can show you. And by submitting at least this once you’ll grasp the depth of what it truly means and how much power a sub really wields.” She slid the tip of the crop down his chest and he let her. “You see, it is all in your hands today, and we will stop when it’s too much. Just use your safeword,” She leaned closer to him, close enough for him to smell her sensual feminine perfume. The high stilettos she was wearing allowed her to speak close to his ear. “It’s  _love_.”

“Excuse me?” he turned his head to the side so he could face her. Their noses were no more than two inches apart.

“That’s your safeword, Mr. Holmes,” she looked at him and raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, daring him to bolt.

“The rules stay the same as agreed over email,” was all he said through half-clenched teeth as he stepped away to further explore the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his stomach trying to convince him to leave the room immediately.

“I hoped you’d change your mind.”

“No,” the answer was quick and gave no space for negotiation. 

“Pity. I have a plug that would suit you beautifully.”

He hesitated again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so unsure of his decision to conduct an experiment. He had never been afraid of pain, so he wondered why was this situation now making him uncomfortable. He needed this experience for research, so off to battle he went. 

“Right. Where do I …?” he indicated his coat and all his other clothes.

“Aren’t you suddenly eager?” she laughed softly. Surprisingly, it was not in the derisive way that most people had when talking to him. Except for John, of course. John laughed with him, not at him. What an enormous difference that made. Concluding that Irene hadn’t mocked him made the decision to stay in the room somewhat easier. 

“I’ll just take the coat for now.” She extended her hand and he obliged. There was a standing coat rack in the far corner of the room on which she hung the heavy woollen armour Sherlock was so used to. 

The St Andrew’s cross bolted to the wall had white padded surface creating stark contrast with the black leather straps secured to it. Sherlock started to take a step back but Irene was right behind him. 

“You’re not scared already, are you? You must know what it is for,” there was a smile in her voice, she was clearly enjoying the turn of events a lot more than he was.

“I do.” Sherlock answered sternly. He had done quite extensive research but as he found out the hard way, research was not enough. He had to conduct an experiment to be sure he grasped the extent of all the data he had collected.

“Then I can’t wait for you to find out how it feels to be strapped to it.” With a subtle sway of her hips she sashayed to the cross to fondle the hanging leather belts. From a white chest of drawers, about three metres to the right, she took out a bundle of satin and spread it out on top of the chest. As she unfolded the bundle, the steel devices glinted on the satin, and Irene gave Sherlock a coy look. “You can still back away... if you’re scared.”

Sherlock smirked. That tactic didn’t work on him, and he did want to know how the whole sexual play should be properly done. Still holding her daring gaze, he started to unbutton his shirt. Soon, he stepped out of his clothes and left them neatly folded on a chair in the efficient part of the room. 

Reluctantly, he approached the X shaped contraption. “Do we have to?” He asked with a note of hope in his voice.

“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” she replied. “For my protection,” her gaze and the slight falter of her smile conveyed a well of information Sherlock understood a little too well. With a nod, he approached the cross and let himself be strapped, legs and arms wide. 

The metal clinked when Irene wrapped the leather belt-like straps. Sherlock felt exposed and uncomfortable with his naked body on display. Neither the cross’s padded surface nor the belts were the reason for his discomfort; it was the helplessness, the feeling of surrender. He tried to placate himself remembering that he could stop it at any time. But he knew that he had to experience this. 

John had liked his hands handcuffed to bed when he had been stark naked, Sherlock could tell then, so he might have enjoyed being strapped like he was now.  _Think about that, about John spread and helpless waiting to be pleasured._ That thought went straight to his groin and he heard an ecstatic sound coming from Irene’s direction. 

The crop in her hand travelled from his jawline, his chest to his erection where it finished with a smack. Sherlock winced but he didn’t mind the pain, not on his cock and not on his balls which received the same treatment a moment later. 

“Your pupils,-” he started saying but was interrupted with a loud smack to the hip.

“I might be gay,” she said not taking her eyes away from the path of her crop, “but I can appreciate the sight of pleasure on an exceptional specimen such as yourself.” She approached the stereo system on a nearby shelf and the beautiful sound of a violin filled the room.

“Paganini’s Caprice 24,” he noticed.

“I thought you might enjoy it,” she went to the previously arranged set of steel toys and picked one. “We’ll start slowly,” she disappeared for a moment and came back with a glass filled with ice. From the distance, it looked like she had poured herself a drink but the glass contained just several cubes of ice.

She took one cube and placed it in her mouth, crushing the ice with her teeth ostentatiously while slowly walking closer. Sherlock could be a very patient man when focused on a case, and the few seconds it took him to predict what she would do next were indeed quite enjoyable. The ice clinked as she put the glass near the satin bundle on the dresser. She carried another cube between her fingertips and grazed his left cheekbone with it, then languidly traced a cold wet trail along his jaw, collarbone and down to his nipple. 

The cold affected the nipple instantly making it hard, amplifying the arousal already brewing in Sherlock’s veins. The same happened to his other nipple. Sherlock was aware that his body was responding to the stimuli the way it was supposed to; his skin was goose-bumped, his heart rate accelerated and his muscles were taut with anticipation. But it was the thought of practicing these new sensations on John that drove him mad with arousal. 

To the first strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Irene clipped a small metal clamp on one of his nipples. He hissed involuntarily, the pain quickly turning into pleasure. 

“Very nice, now breathe as I tighten it,” she screwed the clamp harder and then went to work on the other nipple. The clamps were connected with a delicate-looking silver chain which proved to be sturdy when she tugged on it, making his nipples scream in protest. 

“You’re absolutely gorgeous like this Mr. Holmes, the ultimate Vitruvian man,” she praised. Sherlock lived his life focusing on the need to feed and sustain his mind, not his body, but Irene’s comment made him reconsider his approach. John kept nagging him to eat more, so maybe he should put on some muscle, John would like that. 

Irene reached into the bottom drawer of the dresser and unfolded a device a little smaller than her forearm with round white head on top of it. Sherlock immediately recognized it and knew what was coming. Irene plugged the massager into the socket and gently stroked his penis with her hand as she started a slow ascent on his inner thigh then up to his groin, the powerful vibrations of the head of the massager spiking his libido. Within minutes, Sherlock felt like his skin was stretched too thin on him, like he was burning from the inside through it.

The Woman observed Sherlock intently as she moved the device closer to his cock. His breathing was ragged now and even though he could see what was coming, he still reacted at the contact of the massager with his sensitive flesh. Sherlock tugged on the restraints, not necessarily trying to escape but from the need of holding onto something, as a surge of intense pleasure shot through him. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and an image of John kneeling in front of him, his mouth around his cock invaded his mind. The vibrations of the wand spread through his manhood as Irene was moving it languidly, her other hand cupping his sac. He was extremely close now and she bloody knew it. The moment he was about to come, she pulled away the device and squeezed his cock at the joint of head and shaft. 

“Oh you’re rather good.” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth as his come retreated, both from her touch and from his resolve.

He was graced with a satisfied smile as she accepted the compliment. “Please make more of those delectable sounds,” she asked gently tugging his erection now. “‘Noises are important. Noises can tell you everything.’ Isn’t that what you’ve once told me, Mr. Holmes?”

"I can do this all night,” he bestowed a narrowed-eyed glare and a bittersweet smile on her.

“So can I.”

The daring looks they exchanged were just the very beginning of a three-days-play and three-nights-sleep marathon. 

_ _ _

“John? Why are you... angry?” Sherlock assessed John’s features. Bags under eyes, sloppily shaven, didn’t get out of the house much, an evening out with Stamford three nights ago. “You desperately need sleep. We can catch up once you,-”

“You married her, Sherlock!” John interrupted the detective and pointed in the general direction of the window, as if she was standing just outside the building like an evil vampire wanting to suck the life out of John. 

 _"_ _It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist_ _facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts_ _,_ _”_ _*_  Sherlock rationalised calmly. “She needed my help,” he explained, still clueless why John would be so cross with him. There were other experiments he had done without John’s help and the aftermath had never brought such a severe reaction from John.

“Oh your help? HELP! And did you get something in return?” John was raging mad, not making any sense, but apparently, he couldn’t stop himself. “You fucking married her!”

“It was fake,” Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal, “just for the papers.”

“Oh that’s great,” the sarcasm was not lost on Sherlock this time. “And did you consummate it?”

Sherlock fell silent. He opened his mouth, then closed it keeping his expression neutral. He could try to explain but John didn’t look like he wanted to hear it. Sherlock’s eyes lowered to the floor then lifted back at John. He could see the sweat on John’s neck as he took a step closer to Sherlock, looking up to meet his unwavering gaze, their noses no more than three inches apart. 

He didn’t deny the accusation.

Sherlock suspected John might not be ecstatic about the trip he took, that’s why initially, it was supposed to be a secret but John’s emotional reaction far exceeded his expectations.

John was breathing through his nose, his jaw was set too hard, molars grinding, to comment. 

Sherlock was still standing motionless in the middle of the sitting room when John slammed the door shut as he left.  

*Quote from “A Scandal in Bohemia” by Arthur Conan Doyle

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give Irene what she wanted and what she deserved: a gay relationship and a chance to slap Sherlock around a little ;) Now I can sleep soundly.


End file.
